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So Much for Light and Heat
Flint’s here on business, not pleasure. Volkner’s just . . . not all here.
cw: discussion of self-harm and depression Flint’s here on business, not pleasure. Volkner’s just . . . not all here.
a/n: this is an old but unpublished one-shot from 2018, when I did these kinds of canon character studies more frequently. Aaand already made some spanking new 2022 edits based on Blitz insta-feedback. You folks are the best.
Flint woke to a flood of light. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the bed-sheets. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
. . . His holophone was ringing.
Flint sat up hastily and swiveled around in search of a mirror. But the room, washed by light that tumbled in from the skylight, was bare except for the bed at its center. He rubbed the sleep dust from his eyes and double-checked that his shirt wasn’t rumpled. Then he leaned over the side of the bed and picked up his holophone.
Cynthia. Of course.
Flint climbed fully out of bed, angled the phone so that it would be facing a white wall, and opened the call. The champion’s face shimmered into view. She was in her training clothes, and from the slight flush on her cheeks, Flint figured she’d just wrapped up her morning session. Which meant it was already past 8:00 . . .
“Cynthia,” he said, trying to summon up his usual pep, “Hey!”
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” she said with a slight frown.
“No, no, so what’s up?”
Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “I wanted to know if you’d had any luck.”
Right.
“I tried,” Flint began, which was at least honest, as long as she didn’t press him on just how far he had gotten before Volkner’s dead-eyed stare brought him to a stammering halt. “But it’s difficult. I need some more time.”
“The meeting is in five days,” Cynthia said. Her tone was matter of fact, but there was sympathy in her eyes. “Flint, it won’t be pleasant for any of us if this goes to a vote.”
Flint’s throat was dry. He really needed some breakfast. A glass of orange juice. Or maybe something stronger. “If it goes to a vote? I mean, you tell me. Is it going to?”
“If I don’t bring the motion . . . others will,” Cynthia said. “I think it would be better if it came from me.”
Others. That would be Byron and Crasher Wake, no doubt. Yes, it would be ugly, coming from them.
“And will you have the votes,” Flint asked, finding his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. What he had taken for a skylight wasn’t one, he realized. It was a rectangular panel, its electrical output tuned to match the spectrum of the sun.
Of course it was. Putting in an actual skylight would have been too simple. Flint fought the urge to smile, but Cynthia’s words brought him back to earth.
“I don’t know, Flint.” Even as an agglomeration of pixels Cynthia’s gaze was hard to meet. “Will I?”
“If it’s the only option,” he said, averting his eyes again. Would Volkner even speak to him afterwards? “But surely it won’t come down to me?”
“Removal takes nine votes. Fantina and Candice have already told me privately that they feel uncomfortable censuring a fellow gym leader. I understand that. Last month, Volkner dealt with a rotom that was troubling Gardenia’s citizens. She’s still very grateful. And Roark,” Cynthia smiled awkwardly, “well, lately it seems he’s been voting whichever way will most displease his father.”
“Don’t tell me you couldn’t set them straight,” Flint said, more sharply than he intended. The gym leaders, with Volkner the glaring exception, were unified in their adulation towards Cynthia.
“I don’t want to campaign—” Cynthia was at a rare loss for words. “Flint, you know this isn’t an easy decision for anyone, least of all me. Volkner’s not incompetent, he’s the strongest trainer on our gym circuit. If he would just start taking challenges seriously, we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”
“He’s taking them, at least. Isn’t that enough?”
“Opening his gym after midnight and closing before dawn? Sending his pokemon out to fight without being present himself? I know he’s your friend, Flint, but this behavior isn’t defensible.”
“And I’m not trying to defend it,” Flint said, making sure to keep his voice level. “He lost his spark. Reigniting it is going to take time.”
“It seems to me that Volkner has simply stopped trying. But if it's really as you say—if your theory is correct that the lack of challenging opponents has made him listless, well.” Cynthia took a breath. “Bertha is planning to retire soon. We could offer Volkner her place.”
“On the Elite Four?” With me? Flint blinked stupidly at Cynthia. “But Lucian would raise hell . . .”
Cynthia coughed. “Lucian would, of course, prefer an open selection contest, but he has agreed that moving Volkner into the Elite Four would be a sensible solution to a number of problems. It wouldn't raise any eyebrows—no one questions Volkner’s skill. The two of you get along well, and I'm sure in time the rest of us would learn to see the good qualities that have made you his staunch friend.”
“Cynthia . . . that would be wonderful. Why didn't you bring this up earlier?”
Cynthia’s mouth flattened out. “Because he really has to want this, Flint. It's one thing to have a scandal in the gyms: I will not tolerate an elite four member who neglects his duties.”
“Right,” Flint said, his drowsiness converted into adrenaline. “I got this, Cynthia. You can count on me.”
“I hope so, Flint.”
Cynthia gave him a slight nod and ended the call.
“Yeah,” Flint assured the empty room. “I got this.”
The door of the room opened onto a metallic hallway. Flint craned his head left and right. Five years, and he still couldn’t navigate the labyrinthine back corridors of Volkner’s gym.
“Chu?”
Flint heaved a sigh of relief as Volkner’s raichu rounded the corner. The electric mouse nuzzled against his leg and led him through the corridors, into—
No better term sprang to mind, so the room was Volkner’s kitchen. But in Flint's opinion, it lacked several defining qualities of a kitchen. There was no stove, only a single electric burner with a large black cable running across the floor like a tripwire. Flint had long suspected that Volkner possessed a fridge, but he had not yet discovered it. In place of a sink a box of wet wipes brooded on the square table in the center of the room.
Volkner wasn't there, so Flint seized the moment to examine the rice cooker that rested on the small counter next to the burner. The timer read four days and nine hours. Flint popped the lid and grimaced when the rancid smell of overcooked rice rose to meet him. Coughing, he shut the cooker quickly.
Maybe he could convince Volkner to accompany him out to breakfast. Conversation would be easier somewhere public, somewhere every inch of the living space didn't scream Volkner is here.
Or, rather: Volkner isn’t all here.
"I got you buns."
Volkner's voice made him jump. He was standing in the doorway, draped in his usual navy jacket, a white box held up in his hand.
“Thanks,” Flint said slowly. He looked inside the box and added, "Hey thanks," in a more enthused voice when the smell of fresh-baked bread hit his nose.
Volkner watched him eat over a mug of some steaming dark liquid that Flint hoped was nothing worse than especially bitter coffee. He didn't take a bun for himself.
When Flint had finished polishing off three buns, he paused to lick his fingers. “Aren’t you going to have one?”
"I've eaten."
"Not rice, I hope. Your rice is spoiled. Five days is too long to keep it warming in the cooker like that, you know. If you don't get through it by two, toss it."
Volkner said nothing. The pause was growing thick and uncomfortable, so Flint grabbed a fourth bun, even though he was mostly full now.
He took a small bite and then set it back down on the table.
"Am I keeping you?" he asked tightly. "You have morning challengers, don’t you?”
"Gym's closed today."
"Closed? Why?"
"You're here." Volkner didn't seem to think any further explanation was required. Something in his tone rankled Flint. Volkner could do what he liked, but Flint didn't want to be used as an excuse.
"Don't close on my account. You know I love watching you battle."
Volkner's lip curled. "Too bad, I guess."
"Yeah," Flint said, his heart sinking. "Too bad." He munched on his bun some more. "Challengers haven't improved, then?"
Volkner shook his head, his gaze caught in his dark mug.
Flint took a moment to steady himself. Talking to Volkner was so difficult lately. Every word came like pulling teeth. Volkner had always been a bit melancholy, but now just being near him now was like standing in a thick, cold fog.
You’ve got a solution, Flint reminded himself. Where was his optimism? Just fifteen minutes ago he’d been ready to jump up and down like a turbocharged pichu.
He took a breath. "What if I told you there was a chance you could fight a better class of trainer?"
“Is this another of your advertising schemes, because—”
Flint cut him off. "I mean you could join the Elite Four.”
Silence for a beat. Volkner’s lips curved slowly into an amused smile. "Okay, Flint. And neutrons could take on ionic charge if they really tried."
Flint didn't bother trying to parse the metaphor: the dismissal was clear enough. "I'm serious," he said. "Look, I've heard it from the top. Bertha's retiring. Cynthia’s prepared to offer you her place.”
The harsh sound of Volkner’s laughter made Flint wince. “She must be really desperate to avoid a scandal.”
“That's not—” Flint felt himself gaping. “Volkner, this is the perfect solution. You’d get to face a higher caliber of challengers. Just what you want.”
Volkner grimaced. “A pity offering. I'm not on Elite Four level.”
What? Flint stared at him. “You're close enough.”
“I should take it, just for the suffering on Lucian’s face.”
“You mean you won't?”
“I won't.”
Flint had heard the words, but he didn’t believe them. “You won’t?” he repeated, sounding lost. “Come on, Volkner, you must not be thinking straight.”
“You’re right. I’m not.”
“Well then . . .”
Flint couldn’t continue. Volkner had finally met his gaze. His face hadn’t really changed, but it was like a protective cover had fallen away. Nothing hid the rawness there.
“Flint,” he said with deliberate steadiness, “There is something fucked in my head.” Raichu let out a low whine and sprang into Volkner’s lap. He fell quiet for a moment, stroking her cheeks. “My pokemon are strong, but I’m not. The trainers that stop by my gym—my pokemon don’t need me to win. I wouldn’t be much help, even if I did go and stand there. During matches, I lose my concentration. My head just goes gray and I can’t think. Or I do think, but about the wrong things. Do you remember Cyrus?”
Flint felt like he was speaking from a long way away. Or that Volkner was, speaking from somewhere far-off and hazy. “The leader of Team Galactic?”
“He grew up here, in Sunnyshore. You didn't know that? I suppose you had already left by then. I met him at an engineering competition. He was brilliant, the only one worth talking to, and I was the only one who tried. A small, scraggly kid with cuts lined up on his arm like there was something he was trying to count. He said that humans are just imperfect machines that have tricked ourselves into thinking the world is beautiful. And since then, I’ve wondered—since everything that happened: what does it say about me, that Cyrus made more sense to me than anyone else ever has?”
The silence was thick and absolutely impenetrable, like tar. Flint tried to speak anyway. “Volkner, that’s—you’re nothing like Cyrus.”
“I’m nothing,” Volkner said flatly. “When you get down to it, we’re all just a series of electric impulses. There’s nothing wired into me that makes me Volkner. Whoever you think you’re talking to doesn’t really exist.”
“You exist,” Flint said firmly. “Volkner—” He had no idea where to begin. “It’s this shutting yourself up in here. It does things to your head. Let’s go to the beach. We can get some actual sunlight.”
Volkner’s head flopped down onto his hands. “Go ahead.”
“Volkner, let’s go to the beach.”
“I’m not stopping you.”
He wouldn’t, would he. He just planned to sit there, letting his head fill up with crap about Cyrus and not-existing. Flint realized his eyes were hot. He pushed the feeling back down, and said, in a voice that was almost steady, “Volkner, if you don’t come outside with me right now I am not going to talk to you ever again.”
In the subsequent silence, the hum and crackle of electricity was painfully loud.
Fuck, Flint thought. I’ve done it now. He looked away, down to the black cord snaking across the tile floor.
“Okay,” he heard Volker say slowly. “Not ever? At all? I mean, at league meetings, are you just going to pretend I’m not in the room, or . . ?”
Flint risked a glance up. Volkner was smiling. Smiling, somehow, his thin, wan smile.
“I don’t get you at all. That wasn’t a joke.”
“You mean that?”
He could still walk it back. Force a chuckle and say, Of course it was a joke. Drop the subject.
“Yeah,” he said instead. “I do.”’
Volkner’s face had gone blank. He blinked slowly. “It’s just . . . I burnt all my beach towels.”
“You did what?!”
“It was an accident.” From his lap, Raichu snorted loudly. “Well, sort of an accident. The deliberate sort of accident. Flint, I don’t like the beach. It’s too hot and the sand is inefficient. I submitted a proposal to the Urban Planning Division to convert the beach into a solar panel, but they never got back to me.”
“Imagine that,” Flint said.
Volkner ignored him, his face scrunched into a frown. “The sun should be for producing energy, not for tanning. If I were a grass pokemon, then lying in the sun for hours would make sense. My body would convert the light into energy. But the flaw in this beach proposal is that I am not a grass pokemon.”
“Really? Because I’ve always seen you as a sunflora. You know, bright yellow hair, big beaming smile—”
“You aren’t funny. It’s sad how you think you’re funny, but you’re just not.”
“Actually,” Flint said, “I was voted Most Humorous in the inter-regional Elite Four competition.”
“Wow. You’re funnier than a ninja and a woman who spends all her time talking with ghosts. That really shows me. Consider me shown.”
Volkner’s eyes drifted up to meet Flint’s. As if coming to a silent agreement, they both began to laugh. When he caught his breath, Flint felt better than he had in a long time. It was good to laugh like this, to banter back and forth with Volkner, slipping into their old groove.
“Volkner—” he began.
But Volkner was already shaking his head, the frustration back in his voice as if the laughter had never happened. “I'm trying, okay? I know you think I'm not. But it's—I don't know how to explain. There are days when it’s fine. Then there are days when I don't get out of bed. There are days when just having a single conversation is too much. Sometimes I don't even want to see you.”
That stung. “Volkner—”
“Tell Cynthia she can keep her bribe. I don't want it. I-I've been thinking of going to Olivine.”
“Olivine?” Flint repeated in complete surprise. “In Johto?”
“Do you know a different Olivine?”
“No, but . . . Johto? You hardly leave Sunnyshore.”
You hardly leave your gym.
“You left,” Volkner said, in a tone that fell just short of accusation. “So it can’t be that hard. I want to get my head straight. If I can—then I'll win that Elite Four place myself. No one would be able to say I'm not worthy of standing next to you.”
“There's no one who would say that now,” Flint said quietly.
“There's me.”
Once more, Flint found himself speechless. “You—”
Volkner cut him off. “I don't want to go to the beach. Will you still speak to me?”
“I guess so,” Flint said after a moment.
Volkner’s answering smile was fond. “Knew it. Some kind of fire master you are. You're all flash and no burn.”
“Like electricity?”
“Sure,” Volkner said solemnly. “Almost as wonderful as that.”
*
The sun had set by the time Flint returned, but the interior of Volkner’s gym was unchanged. The electric lights burned cheerily, as if coming into their own without the sun to outshine them. Flint draped his beach towel over something oddly shaped and heat-emitting, hoping he wasn’t about to burn the place down. That would be one way to get him some fresh air, he thought, and chuckled, causing Raichu to shoot him a curious glance and Volkner to do nothing at all—only his feet and hands were visible as he toiled away under a massive pile of panels and circuitry.
The beach had been pleasant, and his pokemon had enjoyed the Sunnyshore sunlight, but Flint hadn’t been able to relax. Something from their conversation had niggled at him. He'd never dwelled on what it had meant that he had left Sunnyshore and Volkner had stayed. That had never felt important. He had always been sure that they were following paths that would inevitably coincide, the two best street fighters in Sunnyshore, together again at the top of the world.
"Why Olivine?" Flint asked finally, as Volkner twisted the end of a cable. As he spoke, it occurred to him that the question shouldn't have taken him three hours to ask.
Volkner’s hands stilled. His voice floated up a moment later. “Oldest light-house in the world there, did you know? They still don't use any technology, it's all just powered by flaffy and ampharos. I could help modernize it, Flint. I could help."
The enthusiasm in Volkner's voice startled Flint—how long had it been since he sounded like that? Flint couldn't remember. And for what? he thought, surprised by his own bitterness. All for some creaky old lighthouse out in the backwaters of Johto, when not three hours ago Flint had offered him a position on the Sinnoh Elite Four. Everything they had always dreamed about, in those solemn midnight talks along the beach-side when they just had a chimchar and a pikachu, and enough ambition to light the stars.
“What am I supposed to tell Cynthia?” he said, his voice gone harsh despite himself.
“Whatever you like. She won’t care.”
She would, actually, but Flint was sick and tired of contradicting Volkner. “Well, I care.”
This time, Volkner’s head popped up. Surprised, damn him.
“You could come, I guess. Don't know what Cynthia would think of that, though.”
“Would you . . . like me to?”
Why was he so hesitant? Almost twenty years they’d been friends, and yet today every word felt like a tremulous step on a tightrope suspended over a magma pit.
Volkner said nothing. Flint’s hands curled into fists. I need you to say something. I need a star to steer by. Some days you don't want to see me, huh? How many days is some? How am I supposed to know—
“I wouldn't mind.”
The words were mumbled, as Volkner shoved himself back under the wires.
I wouldn’t mind.
If that was the best Flint was going to get, should he take it? Tag along and—what? Abandon his duties to kick sand on the Olivine Beach? He was a member of the Sinnoh Elite Four, and that meant something. It meant late nights and early mornings, showing up at the monthly league meetings, even though they left him so bored he had to pinch himself every five minutes to avoid dozing off. And Flint did it. He knew that he dressed too loudly, that he ran his mouth too fast at official events and spouted off things that made the PR department work for their salaries. But he showed up, every damn time, and he was proud of that. It was a feeling he'd never put into words before. He was proud to be on the Elite Four.
Flint stared down at Volkner's sock-feet, a mismatched yellow and black, feeling strangely lost. If Volkner asked him, he would go. Throw it all up, endure Cynthia's quiet disappointment, Lucian's snide remarks, and the newspapers' easy condemnation.
But Volkner wasn't asking.
It took a moment for the thought to truly sink in.
"Hey," Flint said quietly and let the word hang until Volkner looked up at him from his wiring. "I'll be here. I'll be here when you get back."
Volkner swallowed. "Might be gone a long time," he said in a careful voice.
"But you'll come back."
The pause persisted a little too long for comfort. Then Volkner said, "Yeah. I'll come back."
Flint exhaled. He felt lighter, suddenly, as if he'd untethered himself from a load he hadn't even known he carrying. He scratched Raichu once on the chin, then headed for the door without bothering with goodbyes—Volkner had already vanished back under the circuitry.
Outside the night was cold, but when Flint tipped back his head, the stars were very bright.
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